Author's Note: This chapter contains violence and graphic sexual content. There is also a brief scene in which Garen experiences something much like a panic attack, for those who cannot read such scenes.

"I used to advertise my loyalty, and I don't believe there is a single person I loved that I didn't eventually betray." -Albert Camus

186 days sober It takes me a solid ten minutes to work up the balls to knock on Jamie’s bedroom door the next morning. There’s an awful, creeping sensation in my gut, and I’m half-convinced I’m going to open the door and find them in the middle of some revolting dude-on-chick sex act. But when a muffled voice calls for me to enter the room, I open the door to find that, though they are both in the bed, they are both fully clothed, and neither of them appears to have been recently penetrated. “Good morning,” I say, taking a cautious step into the room. “Morning,” Addison yawns. She’s wearing one of Jamie’s old gray t-shirts and—visible once she swings her legs out of bed and stands—a pair of his sweatpants. They’re not as hilariously huge on her as they otherwise could be; Addison is insanely tall—only two or three inches shorter than my six-foot-one—with curves like a pinup model. No matter how disinterested I am in the supposedly fairer sex, even I can tell that she’s beautiful. Her hair is long and inky black, her eyes gray-green, her skin smooth and dark brown. She reaches over and pinches Jamie’s shoulder. “Wake up, James.” “I don’t want to,” he murmurs. It’s not a petulant sort of response; it’s more along the lines of I don’t want to do this day. A more than understandable reaction, given the agenda for this afternoon. I crawl onto the foot of the bed and settle my hands on a lump under the blankets that I’m pretty sure is his calf. “Want me to go make you breakfast and bring it up?” He pulls back the covers enough to give me a look. “You know how to cook now? Good Lord, how long was I asleep?” “Want me to have Magda make you breakfast?” I amend. “And then I can bring it up, maybe, if I can do it without spilling it everywhere.” “That’s a big ‘if,’” Jamie points out. He sits up and props himself up on his pillows. “If she’s up for cooking something, I’ll eat. But I can come down for it, I don’t need to eat it here.” He gestures towards Addison. “Has Darcy been by with a change of clothes yet?” I shrug. “Not that I know of, but I haven’t been downstairs yet. She might’ve left them with somebody else.” The three of us make our way downstairs, where breakfast is already well underway. Magda is preparing one of her great Southern breakfast feasts—eggs, grits, biscuits and gravy, sausage, everything designed to make you die of a heart attack before you turn thirty—and the twins are seated the table in the informal dining room. Ethan is wolfing down huge portions of food, and April is picking at some eggs, while pointedly ignoring the grits, gravy, and anything else with that has the same viscous, white look of jizz. As someone who swallows actual jizz on the regular, I’ve got no problem with throwing myself down on the chair across from April, and helping myself to a little bit—a lot bit, actually—of everything with a heavy ladling of country gravy over all of it. April’s upper lip curls. I grant her my widest, fakest smile and tuck in. “Where are your parents?” Jamie asks his cousins. Ethan makes an unhelpful gesture towards the front of the house. When no one responds, he swallows his mouthful of eggs and says, “They went out for breakfast. Dad’s not really into the southern food, so I guess they’re looking for someplace a little more generic.” Jamie sits down on my other side, and Addison takes the seat across from him. Despite the attitude she’d gotten from Jamie’s cousin yesterday, she doesn’t hesitate to turn and say, “Good morning, April. Did you sleep well?” “Probably not as well as you,” April replies with a pointed look over at Jamie. For fuck’s sake. I know I can’t give this bitch the beat-down she needs, but maybe I could get Stohler to fly down here and kick her ass. Girls are allowed to beat the shit out of other girls, aren’t they? “I’m sorry, was that a question?” Addison asks, smiling sweetly. “Because if so, yes, I slept fine. Thank you for asking.” Alright. It’s not like I don’t get why Jamie likes her. She’s always warmly welcoming, bringing people into her conversations like she’s been waiting for their arrival. She’s calm, graceful, poised in a way most people aren’t, and she doesn’t bat an eye at bullshit. She’s everything Jamie could ever ask for, but since when is he asking? With Addison sufficiently distracted, I lean closer to Jamie and ask quietly, “So, what happened last night, after I left?” “Nothing,” he says. I furrow my brow, and he shrugs. “I’m serious. Nothing happened. I might’ve kissed her for a second, but it wasn’t… it was just a kiss. She was only trying to comfort me.” Probably three-quarters of the “on” portions of their “on-and-off” relationship have begun with just a kiss, so I’m not entirely comforted by this revelation. Neither is April, that eavesdropping whore; she leans across the table and stage-whispers, “Pretty sure there are ways to comfort somebody that don’t involve trying to hop on their dick.” “I was not trying to hop on his anything,” Addison says, waving a fork at Jamie. “I was trying to be supportive of someone who I’ve been friends with since childhood. And as I understand it, I couldn’t get up in his business even if I wanted to. Last we spoke, there was a girlfriend. Is she coming to the—” “We broke up,” Jamie interrupts. Both of his hands are gripping the edge of the table, like he’s considering shoving himself away from it to escape the threat of someone actually using the words ‘the service.’ A moment passes, and then he carefully continues, “Anyway, I’ve moved on from her.” Addison arches her brows. “In general, or with someone specific?” He lifts a shoulder. “Remains to be seen. There is someone specific, but our… relationship hasn’t really had a chance to progress beyond physicality.” “That’s the most eloquent way of saying ‘I’ve got a fuckbuddy’ I’ve ever heard, man. I’m proud of you,” I say. Ethan chuckles, but I glare across the table at him so that he knows just how unwelcome his amusement is. I don’t want someone who fucked over one of my best friends to think that he and I are on good terms, even if that only includes laughing at my jokes. Only once he falls silent do I turn my attention back to Jamie and say, “Think you might, uh… try to reschedule that first date at some point?” “That’s not up to me,” he replies. “I’m not the one who was stood up.” I roll my eyes. “You had a pretty ace excuse.” Another delicate lift of the shoulder. “Still, it’s not up to me. I’ll ask, of course. I’m supposed to call tonight, after the, ah… after everyone leaves. You know… the visiting hours.” Watching him say those words is like watching a thousand-pound weight settle onto the back of his neck. Instinctively, I reach up and curl my palm over the top of his spine, like I can stave off that weight by replacing it with my hand. “Yeah. About that… do you have a specific time you’d planned on that running until? Or do you just want me to hang by your side and kick people out when you start to look exhausted?” “Pastor Milton said that the service will probably run from noon until quarter ‘til. I told him I’d be willing to receive visitors at the house afterward until eight this evening. I suspect I’ll be expected to do the same tomorrow; usual Sunday service in the morning, then accepting condolences until eight o’clock. I don’t expect to have trouble with either of those, but I would… appreciate it if you might stick by me throughout, just in case I need a break?” “Of course,” I say, dropping my hand and digging my fork into the mess of food on my plate without taking a bite. “So, uh… I don’t know if it’s okay for me to ask this, or what, but I don’t really know how this kind of thing goes in Christian families. The only funerals I’ve ever been to have been for my grandma and some family friends, but I was just a kid, and those were all Jewish funerals. I don’t know what I should be expecting today.” In a movement more graceless than I think I’ve ever seen from him, he twists slightly and slumps one elbow on the table, propping his chin up on his hand. “Family sits in the first pew—my aunt and uncle, these two, me. You, please?” I nod, and he does the same in thanks. “People will come in and sit in the rest of the pews, but as there isn’t a body to view, they don’t need to come up front. Some might anyway, to say hello, but I suspect most will wait until after. The pastor will do all the talking. He asked if I wanted to say a few words, but I’d… prefer not to. It’s a bit more of a private matter for me. But he’ll give a eulogy. A sermon. He’ll probably read the obituaries and say a bit about my parents’ role in the congregation, but mostly, he’ll talk about salvation. Obviously, I don’t expect you to participate in any of the prayer, but general practice would suggest that you stand when others stand, sit when others sit. The whole thing should run about an hour at the most, and then people will come up and give me their condolences. A lot of hugging and hand-shaking from people who knew my parents and thus expect me to know them. Afterward, we return here. More people will come and visit. They’ll want to talk about my parents. And they’ll want to give me food.” “Food?” April repeats. “Tons of it,” Addison agrees. “And it will all be homemade, and probably fried. That’s how we deal with tragedy down here. It’s how we deal with happy things, too, actually. When in doubt, fry something and eat it in massive quantities.” “I’m going to be eating fried chicken for days,” Jamie sighs. “By the time I get back to New York, I’ll be four hundred pounds and leaking grease from my very pores.” I clap him on the shoulder. “You might run out of food quicker than you’d think, with me here. I can eat at least twice as much as you can.” “So glad you’re here,” he says, rolling his eyes, but I think he really means it. The entire process of getting ready for the service and getting ourselves over to the church is quieter and less taxing than I expected it to be. April and Ethan are mercifully silent for most of it, and Addison reluctantly allows herself to be moved into the second row of seats to sit with her family. I expect Michelle and Tom to be at least somewhat concerned with sticking by Jamie through all of this—they’re some of the only family he’s got left, after all—but when Jamie settles himself onto the first pew on the right side of the church, his aunt and uncle cross the aisle to sit in the first pew on the left. My eyebrows shoot towards my hairline, but I don’t dare say anything that might cause a scene. Anyway, things get rocky enough after ten minutes of waiting, because that’s when I glance back to the doors and see my parents both arriving at the same time. There’s some sort of usher waiting at the back, handing out memorial cards, but Mom strides right past him without blinking away from me. For the first time since I spoke to Travis the other night, I really feel like I might be about to cry. Thankfully, Mom reaches us before that can happen. She kisses me on the temple and loops one arm around my neck, the other around Jamie’s, pulling us both into a bone-crunching hug. “How are you?” she asks quietly. I don’t know which one of us she’s talking to—probably both. Instead of responding with words, I make an incredibly undignified sort of squeak against her shoulder. Jamie has enough composure to murmur, “Not well.” “Jamie,” she sighs. I can feel her shifting a little, like she might be rubbing his back in an attempt to sooth him. Dad joins us, and I detach myself from Mom’s grip to shove myself at him. He hugs me tightly, but doesn’t say a word. And for one horrible second, all I can think is, I’m glad it wasn’t my parents. The moment the words have formed in my brain, I’m hit with a wave of guilt so intense, my knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Minutes tick by, and I’m sure that I’ve probably been hanging off my dad long enough for it to be weird, but Mom is still speaking quietly to Jamie, who looks like he’s doing his best not to unravel. He’s failing. When she finally releases him, I take that as my cue to shrug out of Dad’s grasp. He squeezes my shoulders and says, “If either of you needs anything from your mother or I, you tell us, alright? We’ll just be back there.” He inclines his head to indicate an open space a few rows back, but he only gets to take maybe two steps away before Jamie throws out a hand and catches his forearm. He releases him immediately, staring down at Dad’s sleeve like he can’t believe how improper it is to grab at somebody’s arm like that, but when Dad doesn’t make any sort of protest, Jamie says softly, “I thought perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, you both might… stay up here?” He makes an aborted gesture that I think is meant to indicate the empty pew on my other side. He swallows and adds, “Please?” Mom takes hold of his shoulders and gives him a brief squeeze. “Of course, Jamie.” I hook a finger into the pocket of his suit jacket and tug him closer to me so that there’s room for my mom to stand on his other side. Dad comes to stand next to me and leans in to ask me in an undertone, “How are you holding up?” “’M fine,” I say automatically, no matter how untrue it is. “My only concern right now is how Jamie’s doing.” “I understand that, and you’re being a great friend,” Dad continues. “But you’re my son, and I need to know that you can handle this. I need to know that you’re going to ask for help, if you need it.” Swallowing my nerves, I steal a glance at Jamie, but he’s in the middle of accepting the condolences of a family I don’t know. Looking back to Dad, I admit, “I think I might call Dr. Howard and ask if we can make our sessions weekly instead of biweekly for a while. I don’t think I’ll have any problems, but it’s… Travis works a lot on the weekends. And I don’t want to bother the guys I hang with at Patton, but I don’t want to be alone, either. I don’t think that’d be good for me. So, maybe if I’m in Connecticut for a few weekends in a row, I’ll be so busy with my therapy sessions or spending time with you or hanging with Stohler and the guys in New Haven, I won’t have time to, you know… freak out.” “I think that’s a great idea,” Dad says, as delicately as a father can say I don’t think you can handle this on your own without relapsing. I open my mouth to reply, but the pastor is stepping up to the front of the church, so I fall silent instead. I loved Melissa and George, but I hate the service. All of the people who come up afterwards and tell Jamie how lovely it was are full of shit, because the service is sickening. Only a quarter of the preacher’s words actually have anything to do with Jamie’s parents—the rest is all about the importance of accepting Jesus into your life before you die, or whatever. It’s so fucking crass that I almost want to cover my ears to block it out, but I can’t. All I can do is stand there like a statue, and then fume silently the whole drive back to the house. Receiving visitors isn’t much better. I’m pretty sure they all realize I’m just Jamie’s moral support, because nobody really talks to me, even though I’m sitting right next to him. All they care about is shoving huge platters and casserole dishes of food at him and getting their turn to remind Jamie how much his parents loved him. The first few times someone says it, he smiles and tells them he knows and goes on with the conversation. After a couple of hours, though, his smile is starting to crack. It isn’t until nearly six o’clock that I realize the real reason it’s starting to get to him. It’s that word: loved. Your parents loved you so much, James. They loved you more than anything. Loved. Past tense. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for a lock on a front door. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. “Good Lord, I can’t believe I have to do that all again tomorrow,” Jamie murmurs, rubbing the tips of his long fingers over his temples. “You don’t,” I say simply. “We’ll barricade you in your room, and I’ll stand outside the front door so I can tell everyone to fuck off and let you deal with this privately. They’ll understand.” He snorts. “Some might, but I doubt most would.” He stands up and twists his torso until his spine crackles. “What I really need to do is go put all that food in the fridge, before it spoils. Nothing stinks up a house like greasy, rotting food in warm weather.” “I can do it,” I offer, but he waves me away without bothering to dignify that with a response. I end up sitting on the kitchen counter and playing Brick Breaker on my phone while he carefully covers all of the dishes, labels them with the contents and the maker’s name, and stacks them into the fridge. I extend one leg just enough to nudge his thigh with my toe. “I might want something from there later. You have any method to how you’d like me to keep them arranged?” Jamie shoots me a suspicious look, but I make sure to keep my face completely expressionless. I don’t need him to think I’m making fun of his anal retentive tendencies, but I really don’t need him to panic at the idea of me rearranging his shit, then feel the need to uncover every single dish to make sure they’re still labeled correctly so that he can restack them. When I don’t offer up a punchline, he says, “Side dishes on the top shelf, main dishes on the middle shelf, desserts on the bottom shelf. Everything’s alphabetical by the contents I’ve labeled them with.” I nod in acknowledgment, still without making a single comment. He wipes his hands off on a dish towel and reaches into his pocket to extract his cell phone. “I’m going to step out into the garden and make a quick call. Should only be a few minutes. Then I think I might just have a shower and head to bed. Will you… would you mind staying in my room again tonight, instead of the guest bedroom?” “I’ll stay wherever you want me to stay,” I say. He leans in to kiss my cheek, then heads for the back door out to the garden. Despite his only a few minutes prediction, it’s another two hours before Jamie actually makes it upstairs. I’m already prepared for sleep, in my boxers and t-shirt, tucked up under the blankets. His voice is hoarse from talking when he says, “You can shut off the lights. I’ll be ready in a minute.” Even though he does shut the lights off, I’m still awake and waiting when he slips into bed twenty minutes later, showered and dressed. I wriggle close and say, “Who’d you call?” “McCutcheon.” That’s all he offers. I reach over to rub slow circles against his stomach with the palm of my hand. “Long conversation,” I observe. He nods, and after a moment of hesitation, adds, “Asked him about rescheduling that date. He said I could come see him whenever I want, once I get back to New York.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, but I can tell he has more to say, so I wait. Eventually, “I have to stay here the rest of the week. Have to meet with all the lawyers and such, start figuring out what the hell is going to be done with all this.” More silence. I just keep rubbing my circles. And then, “I think you should fly back to New York on Monday.” My hand goes still. “And leave you here all alone this whole week?” “I’ll be fine. Michelle, her husband, and their kids are all headed back up north tomorrow. I think I’d like to go to the meetings with the lawyers by myself, honestly. I don’t believe I’d be comfortable with sorting all of that out in front of someone I’m so familiar with. Besides, I don’t want you to miss any more school than you already—” “School can suck a dick, Jamie,” I snap. “I don’t give a fuck about school. All I care about is making sure you’re okay, and I can’t do that from eight hundred miles away.” “Yes, you can,” Jamie sighs. He rolls onto his side, dragging my hand with him so that I’m spooned up behind him. “It’s you, and it’s me. Eight hundred miles is nothing. You know how to take care of me no matter where you are.” “It’s easier when I’m right here,” I grumble. He laughs, softly and without any real humor. “Believe me, Garen. Nothing about this is easy.”

188 days sober When my plane touches down in New York, I text Travis to let him know I’m back safely and will be heading home soon. When my cab drops me off at Jamie’s apartment building to collect my car, I find that Travis is already there, sitting on the trunk of his car and waiting for me. He’s still wearing his stupid fucking Starbucks uniform, like he begged off work early to meet me, and he’s holding a cup of coffee that he extends wordlessly in my direction. I try to take a sip of it, but my hands are shaking too much. Travis takes the cup back, and it’s a good thing, because I don’t even manage to get a word out before I sink right down onto the garage floor and lose it. Still, Travis doesn't speak; he sits down on the ground next to me, curls a hand over the back of my neck, and draws me in.

189 days sober Returning to Patton on Tuesday isn’t any easier. Word about the reason for my absence seems to have spread around the entire school—gossipy little Whitman squad cunts—and I barely manage to make it out of my car before people start coming up to me to ask me about James. And the thing is, I don’t even know half of these people, and I know Jamie probably doesn’t either. They have no right to turn this into conversation fodder. I shove my way through the cluster of people and take my usual position in the quad, even though Sergeant Smitth isn’t even here yet. Around me, a lot of the guys in the squad are still trying to get my attention, still trying to give their bullshit condolences. And then, cutting through the rest of the conversation like a knife through softened butter, I hear someone mutter, “I don’t get what the big deal is.” Slowly, I turn to face the speaker—Eric Barrington, the guy who’s always made to stand between me and Declan when we’re told to line up alphabetically. “What did you just say?” Barrington shifts a little, glances around like he’d been hoping I wouldn't have heard him. But if he didn’t want me to hear, he shouldn’t have said anything. Still, he keeps going. “It’s just, uh… I didn’t really mean anything by it, man. I’m only saying—look, I’ve met Goldwyn, yeah? And I get that he’s your friend, but he’s an asshole. If you ask me—” “No one did,” Charlie says sharply. “—if you ask me, nobody deserves to have to go through something like this, but if I could think of anybody who did deserve it, it’d be Goldwyn,” Barrington finishes. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” Pure, animal rage comes over me so suddenly that my whole body shudders under the weight of it, and then everything… whites out. One minute, I’m standing there and looking at him, hating him, wanting so badly to hurt him, and the next second, I’m on him. I don’t even get a chance to hit him before I’m being dragged right back off by my friends. My movements are so clumsy with desperation to attack that Taylor, Javi, Steven and I all end up on the ground in a pile of limbs, and even that’s not enough to keep me still. I manage to wrench my arms free and start clawing my way out from under the bodies to try to get to Barrington, who is staring down at me in horrified disbelief. I’m not entirely aware of what I’m screaming at him—I might not even be saying actual words, to be honest. I think I might just be snarling, swearing, and, when Taylor makes the mistake of trying to cover my mouth to stop me from yelling out threats, sinking my teeth into his hand. He reels back with a halfway hysterical, “What the fuck, Garen?” but his exclamation is meaningless to me. Everything is meaningless, nothing matters except getting my hands on Barrington and bashing his fucking head into the ground for daring to ever say that about James. Suddenly, there’s a boot on my chest, pinning me down with so much force, I swear I can feel my ribs creaking under the pressure. My eyes dart from boot to leg, leg to torso, neck, face—Declan is glaring down at me, and he’s saying something, but the blood is pulsing in my ears too loudly for me to hear him. He must realize this, because he says, with even more withering disdain, “Knock it off.” “Are you fucking kidding me?” I burst out. “Did you hear what he said?” “Yeah, and what I heard wasn’t worth attacking someone over,” he says. I go completely still. He digs his heel into my sternum and adds, “Grow up, Garen.” I’m so shocked by his betrayal that I don’t even try to move after he takes his foot off my chest. I just stare up at him, my eyes burning into his, thinking over and over, how could you do this? How could you take this asshole’s side after what he just said? Declan rolls his eyes and wanders away to clap Barrington on the fucking shoulder and say, “You alright?” “Yeah,” Barrington says shakily. “I’m fine.” Declan gives him a light push back towards formation, and I hear him mutter, “Sorry about Anderson. He’s a fucking psycho sometimes. You want to partner up for drills this morning?” “Uh, sure,” Barrington says, surprised but pleased. No need for me to wonder why—Declan’s the best in the squad, anyone would love the extra help of partnering with him for sparring drills. That’s why I’ve been his fucking drill partner for the past two weeks. I close my eyes and breathe slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth. I repeat this several times before a shadow falls over me, and I open my eyes to find that Sergeant Smitth has arrived. He’s standing over me, staring down at me with one eyebrow cocked. “Anderson. Are you planning to get up and join the group sometime today?” My first instinct is to tell him to go fuck himself. It’ll get me sent to the headmaster’s office, so I won’t have to slog through all of PT this morning; I can just sit out and pretend to feel guilty for back-talking. But somehow, I just don’t have the energy to be an asshole anymore. I sigh. “Yes, sir. Sorry.” I sit up, but before I can stumble to my feet on my own, Smitth holds out a hand to help me up. I stare for a moment before accepting the hand, but I think that’s more than justified—the only times he ever touches any of the cadets are the times he takes great joy in shoving us into lines or stomping on our asses when our push-ups get sloppy. This time, all he does is haul me upright and let me go. “Thank you, sir,” I say. “I heard about Goldwyn’s family,” he says. My eyes drop to the ground. “How is he?” I raise my eyebrows and lift my shoulders, the only semi-polite way I can think to say, how do you fuckin’ think, dipshit? To my continued disbelief, Smitth claps me on the shoulder and says, “Don’t both stressing yourself about making up the MLEP readings you’ve missed. Take as much time as you need to catch up. And give James my regards.” “Yes, sir,” I say to his retreating back. It’s the nicest, most normal interaction I’ve ever had with one of the squad leaders here—figures that bodies would have to start dropping before a Patton sergeant would show any bit of humanity. Once we’ve been ordered to pair up for sparring drills, Taylor weaves his way back through the group towards me. He knocks his elbow against mine and says, “Come on, G. Couldn’t let you beat down Barrington, but I bet you could do with a healthy dose of violence right now, and I’m probably the only one big enough to take it from you.” “If you wanna take it from me, you’ll have to buy me dinner first,” I say, but my heart’s not in the quip. If Taylor notices my reluctance, he says nothing before taking position across from me. He’s right, it turns out; throwing my weight around does help relieve some of the anger boiling in my gut, even if it doesn’t do a thing to soothe the sting of Declan’s sudden deflection to Barrington’s side of the argument. I try to keep my focus on grappling with Taylor, but it’s hard, especially since I can hear them talking from just a few feet away. Declan is giving Barrington plenty of advice on how to better block Dec’s advances, and Barrington is lapping it up like a needy little pet. And then the conversation becomes a scream. My grip on Taylor slips, and I nearly face-plant in my haste to turn towards the noise. Barrington is on the ground, writhing in pain, and Declan is kneeling next to him, face pale and mouth halfway open in shock. Smitth storms through the group and demands, “What the hell happened over here?” Barrington whimpers like a baby girl, and Declan forces out, “I-I don’t know what happened. We were just running through the drills, and I guess I grabbed him wrong, because his shoulder just gave.” Barrington rolls onto his side enough that his ruined shoulder is visible. He isn’t bleeding, and I’m betting nothing’s broken, but his arm is dangling at a twisted, unnatural angle. Declan touches his boot. “I think you might’ve only dislocated it. Want me to try popping it back into—” “Jesus fuck, no,” Barrington yelps, and Declan quickly retracts his hand. A few of the guys carefully help Barrington to his feet, though he looks like he might be about to keel over again any second now. “Campbell, make sure he gets to the infirmary,” Smitth orders. “Yes, sir,” Declan says. His face is still ashen, and his hand shakes a little as he raises it to touch Barrington’s uninjured shoulder. “Do you need me to—” “It’s fine, just don’t touch me,” Barrington groans, flinching away from the hand. He heads for the path that leads up to the infirmary, Declan trailing after him. Sergeant Smitth rounds on us and says, “Everyone else, back to drills!” I don’t know why I keep watching them walk away. Maybe I’m hoping Barrington will trip and dislocate the other shoulder. Maybe I’m hoping his arm will fall right off. Whatever my reasoning, I’m still watching fifteen seconds later, when Declan idles by the edge of the path and turns back around to face me. I’m still watching when he winks. “Oh, shit,” Taylor whispers beside me. I shoot him a warning look, and he falls silent, but his words are enough to raise alarm from Steven and Charlie, who are the closest pair to us right now. When they shoot him a curious glance, he nods towards Declan, who sticks his tongue out at me and turns away, grinning. “So, breaking up the fight this morning, bitching out G, partnering Barrington—that was all so he could have a chance to attack him without anyone realizing?” Steven hisses. “Has Campbell finally lost it? Because this is insane. This is the literal, dictionary definition of insane—” “Shut up,” I snap, because we’re starting to get weird looks from a guy whose last name might be Roberts? Rogers? I’m almost certain that he’s Barrington’s roommate, probably one of his friends, too. Unless I want everyone to think I’m part of some big fuck-Barrington’s-shit-up conspiracy, my only choice is to get back to sparring. My head is still buzzing hours later, when I take my seat at breakfast. I can’t seem to grasp the fact that Declan actually dislocated someone’s shoulder on purpose, let alone that he did it… what, to make me happy? To make me feel better about the comment about Jamie? It doesn’t seem real, even though it’s pretty much the only thing anyone at our table wants to talk about while we eat. From several feet behind me, Declan says, “Hey, Rogers. The nurse jammed Barrington’s shoulder back into place, put him in a sling, and sent him back to your room. I’m supposed to tell you to get his assignments for him. Tell him again that I’m sorry he got hurt.” Roger gives some vague reply, and there’s a sound of one of them clapping the other on the shoulder, but I don’t dare turn around. I don’t move a muscle, I don’t even breathe until Declan reaches our table, presses a palm to the back of my neck, and leans down to whisper in my ear, “Did you like your present?” He slides into his usual seat next to me and snags a piece of toast from the platter in the middle of the table, but his eyes haven’t left my face. He’s clearly waiting for an answer, and because he’s Declan, he’s probably waiting for a specific answer. And the right answer takes time. I stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee, not because I want it, but because it gives me a moment to think. I take a sip. Declan still hasn’t blinked. Finally, I set my mug down and lean over to whisper back, “I loved it.” My tongue flickers ever-so-slightly over his earlobe as I speak, because why the fuck not. Declan laughs and finally turns his eyes to the spread of food, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve passed a test. Javi shakes his head and mutters, “I can’t believe you did that on purpose.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It was an accident,” Declan says. “Just like how the bottle of Vicodin the nurse gave Barrington for the pain may have accidentally made its way from his nightstand to my dorm room.” “Accidentally,” Steven agrees, earning himself an approving glance from Declan. “You know, this is a new and exciting level for you, Dec,” Charlie says dryly. “Usually when somebody pisses you off, you just revenge-fuck his girlfriend.” “Barrington doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Declan replies. He fills his glass with juice and takes a long sip before leaning back in his seat and continuing, “I considered fucking his sister, filming it, breaking into his dorm room, and hiding the file in the porn folder on his computer, but you give me a lecture anytime I fuck a sophomore.” “Because it’s gross, Dec. They’re two years younger than us,” Charlie groans. Declan shrugs. “Two years younger than you. Courtney Barrington and I are the same age.” My coffee mug is halfway to my lips, but that comment is enough to make me set it right back down. “Wait, you’re not the same age as Charlie?” Declan shakes his head. Feeling very certain I don’t want to know the answer, I ask, “How old are you?” On my left, Javi chuckles, which only increases my dread. Declan smiles down at his plate of scrambled eggs and asks, much too casually, “How old do you think I am?” “I hope you’re eighteen, considering I’m a week away from nineteen, and I’ve spent the last two and a half months trying to convince you to let me suck your dick,” I say. “But based on the way everyone is laughing at me, fuck you all very much, I’m guessing you’re still seventeen?” Javi laughs harder, and Declan just keeps smiling. I’m feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second, because I really don’t try to get on guys who are more than a year younger than me. It makes me feel like a creep, has done ever since Dave and I split the first time. Whether he’s picking up on that same line of thinking now, or he just notices my discomfort, Charlie pushes the coffee carafe closer to me and says, “He’s sixteen, but he turns seventeen next month. Not that much younger than the rest of us. We just like to give him shit for being the baby of the group. It’s not really a big deal.” It is a big deal, to me. For months now, I’ve been treating Declan like he’s only a couple months younger than me, like Jamie or Travis, and now I’m finding out that the age difference between me and him is almost the same as the one between me and Dave. I refill my coffee mug and scald my tongue on another sip. Not knowing exactly why, I say to Declan, “Sorry.” His easy smile is gone now, replaced by a flat, unamused look. “It’s not like I’m a kid, Anderson. They just put me in the wrong grade in elementary school because I changed districts too many times for anyone to know where the hell I belonged.” “Why’d you change districts?” I ask, snatching up this bead of information so I can focus on anything other than his age. “Moved around a lot,” he says simply. “Why?” I repeat. He takes a bite of his breakfast. I cast a brief glance around the table, but the rest of the guys seem to be waiting for an answer too, so I’m guessing this isn’t one of the blanks they can fill in for me. My attention flickers back and forth between Javi and Charlie, since they’ve got to know, but neither of them seems to have any idea, either. I turn back to Declan and ask, “Military brat?” “No.” “So why’d you move?” I ask. Javi kicks me under the table, and belatedly, I realize that my persistent questioning is probably both rude and annoying. Declan doesn’t look offended or annoyed, though. For almost too long of a moment, he is silent. Finally, he sets his fork down, laces his fingers together behind his head, and turns towards me. “My mom was fourteen when she had me, seventeen when she dumped my dad, and twenty-one when she decided that she was too young to be a parent. We were living in Kansas at the time, in this bullshit little town up in Cheyenne County, and my dad had moved to an equally bullshit town in Yuma County, Colorado. When my mom wanted to get rid of me, all she had to do was pull me out of second grade and send me an hour across the state line to go live with him. Except my dad didn’t want me either, so he turned me over to the state. I bounced around foster homes all over Colorado for a year or two before my birth mom’s parents realized I’d been dumped into the system. By the time they adopted me and brought me out to live with them in Nebraska, I’d been through two or three dozen districts—and that’s only the families who bothered to enroll me in school at all—so it was near impossible to piece out what grade I was actually supposed to be in. They gave me a round of placement tests and ended up sticking me in fifth grade, even though I was only nine. I’ve been a year younger than all my classmates ever since.” Declan is still focused on me, so I don’t dare look around the table to see anyone else’s reaction. Based on the complete and utter silence, though, I’m guessing that this is all news to them, too. And I’m guessing that they’re just as clueless as I am about what to say when a friend suddenly reveals—in more consecutive words than he’s spoken to me since we met—a bunch of shit about his dysfunctional childhood and the parents who never wanted him. To buy myself one more second to think, I gulp down my coffee. This feels like another one of the moments where Declan is just waiting for someone to screw up, like saying the wrong thing will confirm to him that he was right to keep quiet about his life for nearly four years. So eventually, I think, fuck it, and say, “Kansas, Colorado, and Nebraska, huh?” He inclines his head, not even a real nod. “So, what sort of bullshit team does that leave you supporting? The Colorado Rockies?” And just like that, all the tension breaks. Declan snorts and says, “Nobody likes the Rockies. You’re from Ohio, so you must like, who, the Cincinnati Reds?” “I’m from Cleveland, so I like the Indians like any good Cleveland boy would—” I try to say, but I’m practically booed away from the table. The debate is instantaneous, and I have to practically yell to be heard, “Alright, maybe they’re not the best team, but they’re still alright! They were like, just at the Series—” “Dude, 2007 is not just at the Series,” Sam protests. “And they lost to the fuckin’ Red Sox, so what does that say—” “Excuse me, fuck off. What’s wrong with the Red Sox?” Charlie snaps. “Uh, how about everything?” Taylor says. “They couldn’t win shit for almost a century, and I swear to god, if the next sentence out of your mouth has anything to do with the Curse of the motherfucking Bambino, I’m going to—” “Don’t you dare talk to me about the Curse,” Charlie warns. “You do not get to talk about the Curse. Everyone here knows who you like.” I’m about to point out that I don’t, but Taylor exaggerates a lean back in his chair and says, “And you can shut right up until you guys have got twenty-seven Series titles—” “—that you haven’t won since oh-nine,” Steven pipes up, and it goes on from there. Next to me, Declan leans ever so slightly over in his chair and murmurs, “I’m impressed you managed to pull that off. I half-expected the rest of breakfast to pass in dead silence.” “Expected, or hoped?” I say, and he grins. After a moment of hesitation, I add, “I brought it up, so I figured it was my job to end it. Especially considering the way you had my back about the Barrington thing this morning.” “There’s only one person who’s allowed to treat my friends like shit, and that’s me,” Declan says, and I laugh like it’s a joke, but his expression tells me it’s not. “It was a simple choice to make. You’re my friend, Barrington isn’t. Maybe it was wrong of me to bust his shoulder like I did, but I don’t have a problem with that. I’ll do the wrong thing for the right person.” I think of Jamie, and the rush of blood I felt in my veins when Barrington made his remark this morning, and the total ease with which I threw myself at him, nothing left in me but a desire to shred the person who’d dare to say something about my best friend. I swallow and say, “I understand.” Declan doesn’t reply, but he does continue to watch me for the rest of breakfast, long after I’ve gone back to eating.

192 days sober “Do you have anything going on tonight?” Charlie asks me the moment he sits down beside me at the start of MLEP. What I’ve got going on tonight is a plan that largely consists of spooning my puppy on the couch and watching MMA fights on TV until Travis gets home from class and lets me play him the latest version of the song I’m trying to write. I tell Charlie exactly this, and he gives me a look like he doesn’t know whether to laugh at me or pity me. “Yeah, change of plans,” he says. “I talked to Taylor, and we want you to hang out with us tonight. Nothing big—just go grab some food or something.” Even the idea of going out and getting a burger with the two of them sounds exhausting. I shake my head and slouch down in my seat. “No, thanks. I’d kind of rather just go home after this.” “And normally I’d accept that and fuck off, but—” Charlie breaks off with a sigh, glances around like he wants to be sure he’s not being overheard, but doesn’t lower his voice as he says, “Ever since you got back from your trip, you’ve looked like you want to slit your wrists. And I completely understand why—I understand that you’re sad about what happened to James’ parents, and you’re worried about James himself. But we’ve only seen two moods out of you since you came back on Monday: foaming-at-the-mouth rage when Barrington shot his mouth off, and… this.” He gestures to me. “You just look tired and depressed and like you’ve totally given up on your life, and… I don’t know. We’re worried about you. You deserve a night of fun.” I don’t want to have fun. Not now, not yet—not when Jamie’s still almost a thousand miles away. George and Melissa weren’t my parents, but it’s only been a week since they died, and I’m still in mourning for them. I can’t stomach the idea of pretending that nothing has happened, even if a night out with friends would probably be fun. “I don’t like to leave the dog home alone,” I insist. “Travis leaves for work at one o’clock, and Omelette’s in the house by himself until I get home from MLEP at five thirty. I have to go home so I can let him out and make sure he has food and play with him outside before it gets too dark. He’ll be really upset if there’s nobody in the house with him until Trav gets back at ten or eleven. He gets so lonely.” “This is the shittiest excuse I’ve ever heard,” Charlie argues. “Come on, your dog is going to get lonely? Fine, you can go home after MLEP and hang out with your dog. Feed him, play fetch, make sure he’s not gonna shit all over your living room or whatever. But then come back later tonight. That way, the dog—what’s his name, Omelette? Omelette will only be home alone for like, an hour or two before your boyfriend gets—” “Roommate,” I interrupt. “He’s my roommate, don’t—don’t call him that. He’d get pissed at me.” Charlie sighs. “Dude, I doubt he’d get pissed at you.” “He would. He likes me, but he doesn’t want to date me. Not until I’m a year sober or more,” I say. “He’d get pissed if he thought I was letting people think he was my boyfriend now. But seriously, man, I don’t know. I’m really not sure I wanna go anywhere tonight.” I glance up, and Charlie’s hazel eyes are round and beseeching. I wrinkle my nose. “That’s the same face your brother used to make when he wanted a blowjob, but I was in the middle of doing something else.” “That’s something I could have lived the rest of my life without ever hearing,” Charlie says around a grimace. I shrug, because fuck him, it’s something I could have lived the rest of my life without ever noticing. He hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Do I do that a lot?” “What, make Dave’s blowjob request face?” I ask, even though I know what he’s asking. He must know it, too, because he rolls his eyes and shifts restlessly in his seat. “No, you know what I’m—do I… remind you of a him a lot?” I turn to face him properly, not because I want to look at his face for this conversation, but because I really need to check. Charlie and Dave have the same eyes; that’s the only thing I’m really sure of. Charlie’s hair is a little lighter, not as curly, and his face isn’t as chiseled as his brother’s; his nose isn’t as straight, his jaw isn’t as angular, his features aren’t so carved out of granite. I might go as far as to say that he isn’t as handsome as Dave, but even after everything else Dave’s done to me, that might just be my own bias. My eyes drop to Charlie’s hands, resting flat on his desk—not clenched into fists, not white-knuckled in fury, not yanking at my clothes, not holding me down. “No. You don’t remind me of him,” I say finally. “Not the parts of him that scared me, anyway.” Relief flashes over Charlie’s face, then shame, probably for being so glad to be nothing like his big brother. I suspect he might want to ask more questions, but the classroom is starting to fill up around us, so instead, he says, “Hey, Declan,” the moment Dec slides into the seat next to me. “Taylor and I are going to go out for something to eat late tonight, and we’re trying to convince G to come along. You wanna go, too?” Declan shrugs. “Sure, but only if it’s after eleven. I’ve got plans over on the Ward campus before that.” “Who is it tonight?” Charlie asks. Declan squints up at the ceiling and slowly remembers, “Dorm three, fifth floor, third room after the staircase, bed on the… left? No, the right. The left was last week.” “Do you remember her name?” Charlie asks, shooting him an exasperated look. Another shrug. “Kelly? Cassie? I don’t know. She remembers mine, though. She’s a screamer.” “You’re foul,” Charlie sighs. “Fine. Text us after you blow a load, and we’ll come pick you up.” ‘We’ apparently includes me, even though I haven’t technically agreed to it. After MLEP, I head home to take care of the dog, but around quarter after ten, my phone starts blowing up with texts from Charlie and Taylor, both of them ordering me to drag my ass back to campus. I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to, but I also don’t want them to keep bugging the shit out of me, so I get dressed in normal clothes, text Travis my plans, haul myself back to Patton, stomp up to the Whitman dorm, and fling myself down between them on the couch in the common room. “You’re just in time,” Charlie says cheerfully, like he hasn’t had to force me into these plans at all. “Dec just texted, he says he’s almost done and we should head over now.” Taylor wrinkles his nose. “Almost done? What’d he do, whip out his phone in mid-thrust so he could text you? You know what, nevermind, I don’t even want to know.” I let myself be dragged down to the parking lot and shuffled into the backseat of Taylor’s car. The drive over to Ward is only a few minutes, so I don’t have to make conversation. Truthfully, I’m not sure they expect me to make any conversation even after we park. We’ve been idling in the back of the residence hall parking lot for maybe ten minutes before I lose my patience. I steal Charlie’s phone out of his jacket pocket and find Declan’s number in his contacts list. It rings for so long, I half expect it to go to voicemail, but eventually, Dec answers, “Yes, Charles?” “If I’d known it was gonna take you this long to get your fuckin’ dick wet, I wouldn’t have agreed to this part of the plan,” I say. “Also, hi. This is Garen.” He snorts. “I figured that out, thank you. Why are you calling me from Charlie’s phone?” “Because I don’t have your number,” I say. “Which is kind of weird, now that I think about it. Anyway, you leaving soon?” “I’m stepping out of Dorm Three and into the res quad as we speak,” Declan says. “Where are you all parked?” “Far side of the lot. Want us to drive over and pick you up in front of the—” The rest of my question is cut off by a muttered curse on Declan’s end, and then the call cuts to silence. I frown. “Campbell? You there?” I check the screen of Charlie’s phone; the call has been ended. I twist around in my seat just in time to see red and blue lights igniting at the mouth of the residential quad. “Oh, fuck.” One of the campus security cruisers has pulled in between the open oak doors at the lot side of the quad, effectively blocking off Declan’s only escape route. Even from here, a hundred yards away, I can see Dec standing stock still in the middle of the quad, his face glowing red, then blue, then red again. I feel another twinge of sympathy for him. Even though I hardly ever have a reason to come by Ward, every Patton boy knows that they go apeshit over trespassing after dark. “Shit,” Charlie mutters. “First time, too.” “First time?” I echo. “Dec’s the only one of us who’s managed to maintain a perfectly clean record the whole time we’ve been at Patton,” Taylor says. “Four years, and not so much as a detention. He’s paranoid that any disciplinary action against him could cost him West Point. Guess it was just a matter of time before—Garen, what the fuck are you doing?” I pause, legs dangling out the door I’ve just thrown open. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to go get my friend.” “And how do you expect to pull that off?” Charlie demands. “Nicely ask the campus security officers to pretty please overlook the fact that he’s trespassing on Ward property in the middle of the night? You know the Ward cops hate us Patton boys, and—” “I don’t think they know he’s a Patton boy,” I interrupt, keeping my eyes trained on Declan’s face to make sure he’s not busy fucking himself over even more. “I don’t think he’s said anything the whole time he’s been standing there. Look, that’s why the security douche is getting pissed. Declan’s not answering any of his questions.” On the seat next to me, Charlie twists around to squint through the back windshield. “That’s the worst thing he could be doing. I’ve been caught on campus before—if you just tell them you’re visiting from Patton, they bring you back to our school and let security there deal with you. Sergeant Smitth tore me a new one, and I had detention for a week, but if they think he’s just some random creep on campus, he’s going to get himself arrested for real.” I turn quickly to face Charlie. “And if that happens, do you think the guard will call it in first, get some back-up out here? Or do you think he’ll just take him somewhere?” “Probably cuff him, put him in the cruiser, and bring him up to the main security booth,” he says, frowning. “Why? What are you planning?” “I’m going to go get him,” I repeat. “Whether he keeps his mouth shut or not, he’s going to be put in the back of the cruiser, right? And I’ve been in the security cruisers both schools use—there’s a cage between the front and the back, and the doors only open from the outside. He can’t get himself out, but I can get him out. All I need to do is go over there and wait out of sight until they’re both in the car. The second the guard shuts his door, I open Dec’s, drag him out, and we make a run for it.” “You plan to outrun a fucking police cruiser?” Taylor hisses. “All the way back to Patton?” I slide out of the car, shut the door as quietly as I can, and lean back down to say through the open window, “No, I plan to outrun a police cruiser to that wall right there.” I point to the four-foot-tall stone wall that borders the parking lot. “If we can get across the lot and over that wall, we’ll be able to make it to the woods before he can drive around it. Once we’re there, all we’ve got to do is book it to the other side, and we’ll be on Patton property.” “This is such a stupid idea,” Taylor groans, but Charlie nods once and says, “Alright. I guess we’ll stay parked here until the cop leaves, so he can’t take down the license plate number. See you back at school.” And the thing is, I know Charlie’s right. I know this is a stupid idea, and that the best thing to do is just let Declan get taken in, let him finally admit he’s from Ward’s brother school, let him get written up. It’s not like West Point is going to rescind his acceptance because he got in trouble once his entire time at boarding school. Kidnapping him straight out of a fucking security cruiser is probably the dumbest, most dangerous thing I could do, but I think that’s why I want to do it. I want that thrum under my skin that comes from doing something reckless. I want that high I get from fucking up and not getting caught. I want to feel my pulse racing and my breath quickening and my hands shaking, because what’s the fucking point of being alive, if I can’t feel it? I cut wide across the parking lot so that I can’t be seen from inside the quad, then pause once my back is to the nine-foot brick wall that boxes in the quad and dorms. From here, I can hear that the guard has left the cruiser running, which isn’t good—if all he’s got to do is throw the car in reverse to follow me and Dec, there’s a higher chance of us getting caught. Worse still, the car is parked far enough into the quad that I might not be able to reach either of the doors to the backseat unless I’m actually in the quad. I close my eyes and try to listen for something that might help. As best as I can tell, the guard is becoming increasingly frustrated with Declan’s continued silence, but neither of them sounds like they’re moving. If that’s true, Dec might still be standing in the middle of the quad, and the guard might have his back to me. I edge closer to the entrance and chance a two-second glance around the corner. I’m right on all counts; Declan is facing me, the guard is not, and the car is completely out of reach, idling just past the massive oak doors. Even though every brain cell I’ve got is screaming at me to stay where I am, I find myself stepping around the corner, right into view. Declan’s eyes snap to me, then back to the guard when I shake my head and hold a finger to my lips, trying to signal that he should not fucking draw attention to me. There’s just enough space for me to edge around the bumper of the car and into the far shadow of the courtyard doors. With my back to the brick, I’m hidden enough that I don’t think the guard will notice me if he turns, but I can still see what’s happening. “You’re a Patton student, aren’t you? You kids are always tromping around over here. If you’re from over there, you need to tell me,” the guard says, trying and failing to sound authoritative. “I’ll turn you over to their security, and they can deal with you. I’ll wash my hands of you completely. But if you don’t go there—or, if you don’t say it to me, if you won’t even say that much, I’ll have to bring you down to the local police station and let them deal with you there.” Declan’s eyes dart towards me again, clearly waiting for some sort of signal. I hold up both palms so he knows not to do anything just yet. I wait, and when he has a chance to sneak another glance at me, I hold both wrists out like I’ve been handcuffed and nod. It’s the closest I can get to reassuring him that he can let himself get put into the car and I’ll still get him out of here. He must understand me, because he looks back at the guard and shrugs, as if to say, go ahead, I don’t care. The guard huffs. “Put your hands on your head and turn around.” Declan obeys, albeit lazily. The guard removes a pair of handcuffs from his belt and hooks one cuff around Dec’s wrist, lowers it to the small of his back, then brings the other wrist down to be secured as well. “You know, kid, you’re going to regret not just answering my questions. You must think you’re a real badass, huh? Baddest kid at that school, huh?” I can’t help but make a face, because excuse you, asshole, I’m pretty sure I’m the baddest kid at Patton. Like he can read my mind, Declan chuckles. The guard grabs him by the back of the jacket, yanking him towards the cruiser. I press myself further into the shadows, holding my breath and trying to disappear as much as possible. I can’t be entirely out of sight, not if I can still see them so easily, but the guard is more preoccupied with dragging Dec around the passenger side of the car. Shit. I’d been so concerned with staying hidden in the shadows of the quad doors, I hadn’t bothered to think of how the hell I was going to get from my hiding place on the driver’s side over to the door on the passenger side without the guard jumping out and grabbing me. The driver’s door is right the fuck there, and if I come out when he’s-- Oh. My heartbeat quickens even more, because there’s an idea that’s simultaneously more and less stupid than pulling Dec out of the backseat and making a break for it. If I get caught doing this, there’s no way I’ll be able to escape an actual arrest. If I don’t get caught, though, we’ll be home free. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to figure out what someone less fucking crazy than me would do, but I’m coming up blank. I settle for listening. The engine of the cruiser is still running. The rear passenger door clicks open. The engine is running. The guard manhandles Declan into the backseat. The engine is running. The door slams shut. The engine is running. If this isn’t God asking me to commit auto theft, I don’t know what is. Before my mind can even fully formulate the thought holy fucking shit, what am I doing, my eyes are open, and I’m shoving away from the wall, and it’s happening. It’s happening so fucking fast. I’m yanking open the driver’s door—getting behind the wheel—slamming the door shut—pressing the button to lock all the doors—buckling my seatbelt. The guard starts tearing at the handle to Declan’s door, but he can’t get in. He’s bellowing something, but I can’t hear it over the sound of blood pulsing in my ears. I look in the rearview mirror; Declan is staring at me, and for the first time in all the months I’ve known him, he looks stunned. “Hi there,” I say. “My name’s Garen, and I’ll be your driver this evening.” “Garen,” is all Declan can get out. “If you can’t get your seatbelt on, brace yourself against something. Now,” I order. He sinks down in his seat and brings his knees up against the back of the passenger seat to steady himself. I straighten the wheel, drop the E-brake, throw the car into reverse, and stomp on the gas. The guard reels back from the car, thankfully, so I manage to pull out of the quad without accidentally running him over. The second we’re clear of the doors, I yank the wheel around and switch to drive, flooring the gas pedal and heading straight for the parking lot exit. I chance a glance over at Taylor’s car on the far side of the lot. Our friends are staring at me in complete disbelief, but thankfully, they’re not stupid enough to draw attention to themselves by following. A peek at the side mirror tells me that the security guard is trying to chase after the cruiser, but he’s not even close to fast enough to catch us. I clear the parking lot with ease and aim for the driveway that leads away from the Ward campus. The red and blue lights are still flashing overhead, and once I’ve gotten far enough to feel okay about slowing to normal speeds, I flick a few switches until I find the one that shuts them off. The last thing I need is for another security car to realize something’s wrong and start following me. Only once we get to the campus gates do I realize my mistake—instead of taking the back path to the lot, I’ve put us on the main route, the one that passes the security booth. And there’s a fucking guard inside it, frowning over at the cruiser as we get closer and closer. “Okay, so this was definitely my ‘Plan B,’ and I’m realizing now that maybe I didn’t think it through that well,” I say to Declan. He doesn’t say anything, though a glance in the mirror tells me that he’s still staring at me. “Alright, uh, here’s our new plan: stay like you are, keep as still as you can, because the fact that you’re not wearing a seatbelt right now kind of makes me feel sick. I’m going to get us past the gate and onto the main road, but once we’re far enough down the road that the dude at the gate can’t catch us on foot, we need to ditch the car and head for the woods. Got me?” “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve got you.” The guard at the gate stands up, but there’s no time for him to get out of the booth before I drive right past it. He must realize something is up, because he calls after me. I roll to a stop just long enough to make sure there are no cars in cross-traffic, and then I gun it out onto the main road in the opposite direction of the Patton gates. I can’t risk having them tail me that way, not until I’m sure my friends will be able to get back without incident. In the backseat, Declan starts shifting around. When I frown at his reflection in the mirror, he says, “I’ve got a clip in my wallet. I can pick my way out of the cuffs.” “Cool, cool,” I say, dragging my palm over my hair in a poor attempt to steady myself. “Leave ‘em on the seat once you’re out, but make sure you wipe your prints off first.” We drive in silence for a few minutes, just the two of us, the clinking of his cuffs, and the pounding of my heart. Finally, he frees himself, rubs the cuffs clean on the hem of his t-shirt, dumps them on the floor, and orders, “Pull over here. Can’t see it now, but if we cross the road and go about twenty yards into the woods here, we’ll be on one of the paths the cross-country team uses for practice. It’s only a ten-minute walk to Patton’s backyard.” I guide the cruiser into the gravel shoulder and cut the engine. It only takes me about thirty seconds to wipe my prints off everything—steering wheel, light controls, gearshift, seatbelt, inside of the door—but it’s apparently long enough for Declan to get impatient. By the time I get out of the car and reach for the handle, he’s crowded up against the inside of the door, shifting restlessly like an animal in a cage. I open the door, and he tumbles out, grabs me by the wrist, and drags me across the empty street, into the woods. We’ve only managed to pick our way maybe ten feet into the woods when we hear the sirens—the Ward security cars must be trying to hunt us down. Declan’s grip on my wrist tightens. “Come on,” he says, and we start to move faster. It’s pitch black, and the woods aren’t exactly easy traveling; there are strays roots and rocks everywhere, and I nearly get my eyes stabbed out by a few stray branches before I give up and pull out of Declan’s grasp so that I can walk behind him instead of next to him. I follow his shadow as quickly as I can, trying to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible so we won’t draw the attention of the guards who’ve probably stopped out by the cruiser. Even once we’ve cleared the woods and made it to the path, neither of us dares to stop walking or start speaking. Only twenty yards of trees separate us from the people who are bound to be incredibly pissed at us right now, and I don’t want to risk giving away our position with conversation, so I pull my phone out of my pocket and send a text to Charlie and Taylor both. all good on this end. ditched the car, back on patton property. trying 2 stay quiet, DO NOT call me or dec. text when ur back @ school safe. When I look up after sending the text, I find that Declan is taking advantage of the flatness of the jogging path and the brightness of the moonlight, walking backwards so that he can face me. If I thought he looked like an animal when he was still locked in the back of the cruiser, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now, with his teeth bared in the widest, wildest smile I’ve ever seen him with. “So,” he says, still cautious enough to keep his voice low, “Garen Anderson steals police cars now.” I roll my eyes and hope he can see it even in the darkness. “So, Declan Campbell’s enough of a fucking idiot that I have to steal police cars to save his dumb ass.” “Could’ve left me there,” he says. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his voice sounds rougher than it usually does. “It’s what anyone else would’ve done. Christ, it’s what I would’ve done. If I’d been in that car with you, and it had been any of the other boys in the squad who’d gotten caught, and you wanted to go get them, I wouldn’t have let you. I would’ve let them get taken in.” “So would I,” I say without thinking. “If it had been anybody else on the squad, I would’ve let them get taken in, too.” He lets out a breathless little noise that sounds like it might be a laugh. “Not me, though?” I can’t find the words to tell him the truth—that there’s something about him that makes me think it’d be less dangerous to steal a cop car tonight than it would be to let him get brought in by the cops and risk suffering his wrath later. That the other guys in the squad would’ve just taken the detention, and maybe I admire the fact that he stayed dead silent even when faced with worse. That I needed to do something crazy tonight, and this just happened to be the perfect excuse. So instead of trying to find my own words, I give him his. “I’ll do the wrong thing for the right person.” Declan stops walking backwards, though it’s dark enough that it takes me a few steps to notice. I manage to stop just short of crashing into him, but before I can back up, he surges forward, and for a panicked, bewildered split-second, I am convinced he’s about to attack me. My hands are clenching into fists at the same time that his are coming up to grip the front of my jacket, and then he’s not hitting me—he’s kissing me. My mind goes blank. I would’ve been less surprised by a punch to the face than I am by the feel of his lips on mine. It isn’t a short kiss, either; it’s not a joke, a laughing peck given in gratitude. It’s hungry and hard and terrifying. Nearly three months of wanting this, and I’ve pictured this dozens of times—usually in a shower stall after PT, with my hand around my dick and the image of him sweat-slicked and panting still fresh in my mind—but I never pictured him meaning it. Stoned and snickering and putting on a show for a few Ward girls he wants to bang? Sure. Drunk off his ass and smacking a quick, sloppy kiss to the side of my mouth as a thank-you for driving him back to the dorm? Absolutely. But clutching at my jacket and backing me up against the nearest tree and serious as hell? I never, ever imagined it like this. He pulls back, and finally, there’s the laughter. But it’s breathless and quiet, and he cuts himself off with another hard press of his mouth to mine before he pulls back again to say, “Knew you understood. The other day, what happened with Barrington, what I did to him. I knew you understood.” I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he’s high after all, because I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about. I’ve never seen him like this, so excited and open, and it’s a little disconcerting. I’m still kind of convinced it’s a fluke, but what the hell—I frame his face with my hands and yank him back in for another kiss. And he kisses me back. I think that’s the most shocking part of this—that he wants to keep going. His mouth opens under mine, and when his tongue comes out to meet mine, I can feel the faintest touch of the metal barbell that goes through it. Just like that, all of my hesitation is gone, because fuck. Maybe he’s running on an adrenaline rush, maybe he’s on a fuckload of drugs I don’t know about, but maybe he just wants me back, and if that’s the case, I’m sure as hell going to let it ride. One of the hands I’ve got on his face tips his head back so I can move my mouth to his throat, and the other hand drops down to grab a palmful of that sweet ass. He flattens his body against mine, rocking up against me, and Christ, he’s actually hard. I must make some sort of noise over that, because he breathes out another laugh and goes for my wrist, guiding my hand to his belt as he says, “You never struck me as the type to be afraid to touch.” “I don’t wanna touch it, dude, I wanna fucking choke on it,” I say. Before he can say another word or change his mind or remember that he’s actually straight, I sink to my knees right there in the dirt and start working open the buckle of his belt and the fly of his jeans. As soon as I’ve lowered his zipper, he hooks his thumbs over the waistband of his jeans and boxers and shoves both down just enough for me to get his dick out. As eager as I am to get to it, I still allow myself to take a few seconds to really appreciate everything I’m seeing here—the delicious v-cut of muscle leading down to his groin, the freckles scattered all over the paper-white skin of his hips, the closely-trimmed thatch of dark red hair at the base of his dick. And shit, his dick is beautiful; it’s a little longer than average, cut, nice and thick. The kind of dick that makes my mouth water and all my friends make fun of me because I’m just that gay. I grip his hips and pull him towards me so that I can take him right down to the root in one long swallow. Above me, he barely manages to stifle a groan, and I think I hear him bringing up a hand to brace himself against the tree behind my back. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased with the reaction; it’s not like I learned to deep-throat for my fucking health. I pull off and trace the thick vein on the underside of his dick with my tongue, pausing at the tip to give some special attention to the head before sinking all the way down again and starting up a steady rhythm of taking him all the way in. My blood feels white-hot under my skin, like I’m burning from the inside out, and this is exactly the sort of bad decision I wanted to make tonight. In the pocket of my jacket, my phone starts buzzing insistently. I have no intention of answering it, but Declan pulls out of my mouth and hauls me upright by the shoulders of my jacket so that he can fish around in my pocket for the phone. “What the fuck, dude, ignore it,” I say. My voice is hoarse from getting my throat fucked, and Dec must like that, because his eyes darken, and he presses in for another kiss before he accepts the incoming call, pulls away from me, and says, “What do you want?” From this close, it’s easy to hear Charlie’s voice on the other end asking, “Where the hell are you guys? I thought you said you were back at school.” “We are,” Declan says, shifting to pin my phone between his ear and shoulder so that his hands are free to start unbuckling my belt. My pulse jumps, and I have to remind myself that pressing my dick against his hip to urge him to move faster would probably be considered impolite—I do it anyway. I hear Charlie make an impatient noise before saying, “Okay, well, do you mind telling me where? We’re in the senior parking lot right now, it took a couple minutes to get back ‘cause we were trying to avoid any route the cops might’ve taken.” “Wait there for us. We’ll come to you,” Declan says. “Where the hell are you guys?” Charlie repeats. I lean in close to whisper in Declan’s free ear, “Wrap up the phone call. Hearing my psychotic ex-boyfriend’s little brother in the background kind of kills my hard-on.” Declan shoves a hand past my unbuckled belt and into my still buttoned jeans, circling a hand around my dick and laughing out a whispered, “Liar.” “What’d you say?” Charlie asks. “Nothing, Charles, Jesus Christ,” Declan groans, half out of exasperation, half because I’ve started stroking him off. His hand—big and warm and rough with callouses—is still wrapped around me, but he isn’t moving it. Impatient for some real friction, I pop the button on my jeans and yank down the zipper so that I’ve got room to wrap one of my hands around his, tightening his grip and pushing forward into the circle of his fist. It’s a little too rough with no spit or slick to ease the way, but I’m willing to forgive that, because unless I’m incredibly mistaken, this is the first time he’s touched any dick but his own. That in itself is enough to get me even harder, enough to make me wish I could be back on my knees for him right now. Once I’m sure I can let go of his hand without him letting go of my cock, I reach up and snatch the phone away from him. I say, “We left the car on the side of the road and have to make our way back through the woods. We’re still walking back. We’ll meet you at the—” Declan’s mouth comes to my throat, and he starts sucking a mark just above the collar of my t-shirt. My head tips back to rest against the tree, and my eyes flutter shut. I have to sink my teeth into my lip for a few seconds to stop myself from making a noise that’ll give us away, but I eventually manage to say, in as close to a normal voice as I can hope to get, “We’ll meet you at the parking lot. Shouldn’t take much longer.” “Ten minutes,” Declan says, loudly enough to be heard on the call. I hold the phone away from my mouth and whisper, “Bet I could make it less than five, if you let me finish going down on you.” He kisses me again, nips at my lower lip with his teeth, and I barely remember to bring the phone back to my ear in time to hear Charlie sigh, “Fine, fine. Ten minutes. Walk faster, assholes.” I end the call and drop the phone, not caring if I break the screen, but Declan stops me when I try to go to my knees again. Instead, we end up rutting up against one another, each of us fucking the other’s fist and muffling our moans in dirty, open-mouthed kisses. When he comes, he sinks his teeth into the shoulder of my leather jacket and at least has the presence of mind to twist his hips so he’s not getting off on my clothes. It’s more than I’m able to remember when I follow him a minute later, but my dazed expression must be enough of a warning, because just as I start to feel that low buzz of impending orgasm, he shoves me around until I’m face-first against the tree, with his chest flat against my back and one of his hands reaching around to finish me off. I’d love to be able to say that I get off without making way too much noise and a mess all over the trunk of the tree, but that would be an out-and-out lie, and I can’t really bring myself to care. For a while, all I can do is stand there with my forearms folded against the tree, my head hanging low between my shoulders and my eyes on the ground. Suddenly, the screen of my phone lights up with an incoming call with Taylor, and a series of disjointed, disgusting thoughts all hit me at once, faster than I can even process—Taylor’s calling me, and I don’t even have Declan’s phone number—I don’t have his number because why the fuck would he give his number to some pathetic guy who’s so hard up over him—he’s straight, and I swore I was done with straight guys after that first night with Travis—I swore I wouldn’t forget the way he shrugged me off the next morning, and how badly it hurt to think he’d just been experimenting with me, and that I didn’t mean anything to him, and—god, Travis is home right now, in our house, with our dog, and I can’t believe I forgot about them, about everyone but myself—Travis is at home with my dog, and Jamie’s all alone in Georgia, and his parents are dead, and I can’t believe I left him there alone—there’s an entire world outside of Patton, and I’m standing in the woods, panting, my jeans gaping open, my dick hanging out, Declan’s hands on me, and—why am I always so fucking selfish? Why can’t I be a good person and a good friend just once? I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, or where all of this is coming from. Twenty seconds ago, I was fine, I was getting off, and now, all I want to do is go home. I’m almost breathless now, crippled by the weight of everything I’m feeling. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to fix it—not on my own. “We should go meet the guys,” I say, surprised I can get the words out of my numb lips. Not knowing if I’m talking to him or myself, I add, “You should put your clothes back on.” I nearly maim myself in my haste to tuck my dick back into my jeans before I stoop to collect my phone and answer the call with a rushed, “Yeah, hi, we’re coming.” “I know you don’t live on campus, but the rest of us have got a friggin’ curfew,” Taylor says. “I fucking know that, Lewis, Christ. Quit your bitching,” I snap. I hang up without waiting for him to reply, and I jog the rest of the path without waiting to see if Declan is following. He must be, though, because when I finally get to the senior parking lot a minute later, Taylor says, “There you guys are.” “Yeah, yeah,” Declan replies from just behind me. “So sorry that Garen’s first-degree felony didn’t fit into your schedule. Don’t think I didn’t notice that he was the only one who did a damn thing to help me, by the way.” “Pretty sure we wouldn’t have all fit behind the quad doors,” Charlie points out, then, “Hey, Garen, you’re leaving?” My car keys are out of my pocket and into the lock of my car door before I even think to glance over at them. I open the door and sink down behind the seat. “Yeah. I’m, uh… I’m gonna go home. I want—I’ll see you guys tomorrow, I guess.” “Alright,” Charlie replies, frowning at me. Before any of them can question my eagerness to get out of here, I start the car and peel out of the parking lot. The drive home is completely silent, without even the blaring radio to keep me company. For one of the first times in my life, I don’t think I can stomach music right now. I don’t think I deserve it. When I get back to the house, the first thing I do is stagger upstairs and into the bathroom. It’s like I can’t shower fast enough or thoroughly enough to scrub off the feeling of worthlessness I’m drowning in now. And still that chorus runs through my mind-- Why did I leave Jamie alone? Why can’t I be a better friend? Why am I such a bad person? I cut the water off and wrap myself up in one of the fluffy blue bath towels. When I step back into the hall, I see that Travis’ bedroom door is open, and the light is on. Though I know I should go to bed—if I don’t deserve the comfort of music, I sure as hell don’t deserve the comfort of his voice—I find myself shuffling down the hall to lean against his doorjam. Travis is on the bed, leaning back against his pillows, highlighting a paragraph of his textbook with his left hand and scratching behind Omelette’s ear with his right. Omelette spies me first, and he gives an ecstatic little wriggle in place, thumping his huge, fluffy tail against the bed over and over. Travis glances up and gives me a faint smile. “Hey. You have fun with your friends tonight?” Slowly, I shake my head no, and his smile fades. Omelette is still writhing around, looking for attention, but when I reach out to pet him, Travis shakes his head and gestures to his chest of drawers in the corner. “Get dressed, then come tell me about it.” I trudge over to the dresser and dig out a pair of soft, green sweatpants, pulling them on under the towel before I ditch it on the ground. All of Travis’ shirts would be uncomfortably tight on me, but I’m able to find a plain black shirt that I’m pretty sure used to be mine, once upon a time. When I turn around, I find that Travis has herded Omelette to the foot of the bed, leaving the space next to him free for me. I sprawl out over it, but he curls an arm around my shoulders and drags me closer until I give up and tuck my face against the side of his neck. “Did something happen?” he asks softly, tracing gentle circles against my shoulder with the tip of his middle finger. “Or, are you still just sad about James?” “I didn’t even think about James for most of the night,” I whisper. “That’s why—I’m just not a good friend, I think. I should have stayed home, in case he needed to call me.” “Did he call you?” I shrug. “No, but he could have, and I probably wouldn’t have picked up, because I would’ve been busy. And it—I did something kind of bad, I guess.” He waits for me to explain, but I don’t want to. Omelette sneaks up the bed on Travis’ other side, and I reach across to pet him. A minute passes, and I grudgingly admit, “My friend was getting in trouble, so I stole the police cruiser he was in so that I could help him evade arrest, and then we fucked around in the woods, even though I know he’s straight and kind of a slut and only wanted to get off.” Travis’ hand goes still on my shoulder. I burrow closer to his neck, waiting for the fallout. Finally, he repeats my earlier words, “You did something kind of bad, you guess.” “Yeah.” “You stole a police cruiser with a person in it. And you fled from the cops. And you boned a slutty, straight guy who only wanted to use you for sex. And you did something kind of bad, you guess.” “Yeah.” “Okay. Can I have a minute to, you know, process this?” he asks. I nod. We wait. I whisper Omelette’s name, and the dog flops across Travis’ chest so that he can get close enough to give my arm a weirdly thorough tongue bath. I push his face away, and he makes a muffled snorting sound before tucking himself up against Travis’ side, practically the mirror image of me. Finally, Travis asks, “Which friend was it?” He sounds like he already knows, and after what he witnessed at the laser tag arena a week ago, I guess he might. “Declan Campbell.” I can’t see his grimace, but I can feel his jaw shifting near the top of my head. “I was afraid you were going to say that. He’s the redhead, right?” I nod. “He’s, uh… you know he’s kind of an asshole, don’t you? I know he’s your friend, and I’m not saying he shouldn’t be, but he’s—” “I know,” I mumble. “It’s not—I don’t think I like him, not like that. He’s my friend ‘cause he’s fun to hang out with, and he’s—” I think of Barrington and his fucked-up arm, I think of the police cruiser and the way he’d thrown himself into the kiss, I think of how I’ll do the wrong thing for the right person. “—loyal. He’s a good friend. And he’s cute, but I’m not—I just wanted to be a bad person tonight. And he was there to make that happen.” “You’re not a bad person, G,” Travis murmurs, twisting to press a lingering kiss to the top of my head. “No matter what you did tonight, I know you’re not a bad person. And I know you better than almost anyone does.” Better than anyone but Jamie, is what he means, and there it is again; the curl of regret in my stomach, because I know I should have stayed in Georgia with him. But I’m here in New York now, and I can’t really do anything about that. Travis keeps repeating it, over and over, but it doesn’t matter—I still feel like a bad person.